“I have a message for you to deliver, Abdul Salib,” said Al Yad, and all three emissaries had their heads tilted back and their gaze locked onto their host, transfixed, their eyes unblinking and their mouths slightly agape. Al Yad didn’t raise his voice, but he somehow raised his intensity level, and his words held his visitors spellbound. “For your President Najjar.”
The ground began shaking again, but this time even more fiercely and throughout the entire tent, as though they had been hit by both an earthquake and sandstorm simultaneously. All five birds whistled in alarm and hopped around their tiny quarters in distress. Two of the vibrating pedestals crashed to the ground, sending golden cages tumbling onto the now-living sand, and a jet-engine roar built quickly in the tent, pounding into human ears with nearly eardrum-bursting force.
“Tell your president I shall accept no further audiences with his people,” shouted Al Yad, powerfully enough to be heard over the tremendous din. “Nor shall I allow further interference with my activities. I am The Hand of God!” he thundered down to them, and the anger in his tone seemed to cause the tent to shake ever more vigorously. “If he chooses to ignore my word, I will smite him with such a righteous, terrible vengeance, that only Allah will be able to recognize his remains.”
A blast of slick spray splattered Salib’s face from his left, shocking him so much he barely suppressed a scream. He instinctively threw himself into a crouch. To his left, the man he had known as Falah Malik fell to the sand beside him, his head no longer attached to his shoulders. Blood poured from his neck as if it were a hose.
Salib’s eyes shifted quickly to his right, just in time to see the head of his other companion explode like a watermelon packed with dynamite, spraying additional blood and tissue onto his hair and face.
Salib fell to the sand, choking back vomit.
No weapons had been fired, and no one else had entered the tent.
The ground abruptly stopped shaking, and the roar ceased. The utter silence was as terrifying to Salib as what it had replaced.
“Go!” commanded Al Yad, waving his arms impatiently, as if unable to believe Salib was still in the tent. “And tell your weakling president what The Hand of God has wrought here.”
Still hovering in midair, the man once known as Omar Haddad turned, so that his back was to his sole surviving visitor. Salib was on his knees in the sand, covered in gore, and still reeling from what he had witnessed.
“And know that you have only seen a hint of the wrath I’m prepared to unleash,” finished Al Yad icily.
As Abdul Salib stumbled frantically toward the entrance to the tent, he realized that he didn’t doubt this declaration for an instant.
PART ONE
“All truth passes through three stages. First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is violently opposed. Third, it is accepted as being self-evident. ”
—Arthur Schopenhauer
1
Five months later:
Alyssa Aronson stared intently at the digital clock on the bottom of her television screen, feeling a mix of emotions including hope, anxiety, and curiosity. But mostly she felt like an idiot. A pathetic idiot.
Internet dating? Had it really come to this?
A part of her knew that Internet dating was actually far superior to how dating had been done throughout much of modern history. Through random chance meetings, fix-ups, and the bar scene and party circuit. This was more scientific. More capable of actually matching people based on their interests and personalities. And there was no stigma to it. It was the Internet age and everyone was doing it.
But even though she knew all of this intellectually, still, at an emotional level it smacked somehow of . . . desperation.
On the other hand, she had realized recently that she was desperate. Yes, she was still only twenty-eight, but her genes had kicked into gear lately, and she had become more concerned with entering a relationship than ever. She used to roll her eyes when the phrase “biological clock” was used, but just because she was an expert in human behavior and motivation didn’t mean she could circumvent the impulses hardwired into her.
One could possess the most incredible combination of superior genes in the history of humanity, but if one was unsuccessful at mating, these superior genes died with their owner. Alternatively, if someone was good at finding mates and reproducing, and absolutely nothing else, his or her inferior genes would survive.
So if genes needed to ensure that sex, and in some cases the insatiable drive for it, were so interwoven into the fabric of the psyche that mating could not be ignored, and was even critical for proper mental health and bodily functioning, they would do so. And if genes needed to take over the mind, force one to pursue the opposite sex almost against one’s will, or destroy all rationality—which, after all, a potent chemical potion released into the bloodstream after sex helped to ensure would happen during romantic love—they would do so with single-minded ruthlessness.
Alyssa was broken from her reverie by a polite, almost tentative rap at her door. She glanced at the screen, which read 11:30 exactly. When Theo Grant says he’ll pick you up on Saturday at 11:30, he means Saturday at 11:30.
She took one last glance at the hallway mirror. She didn’t know why, since she was pretty sure the mirror would show her the same image it had shown her thirty seconds earlier.
She gazed upon a woman with a light complexion and perfect skin, who was only 5’4 in height but refused to wear heals, believing these were torture devices invented during the dark ages. Her clothing was simple and tasteful, and she wore minimal jewelry and makeup. She was fit and had curves in all the right places, with shoulder-length, brownish-blonde hair, and a face that was feminine, and, of course, well above average. If she did say so herself.
She grinned as this thought flashed through her mind. It was a recurring joke she had with herself. She was well steeped in the data behind what many called the Lake Wobegone Effect, named after the fictional town popularized by Garrison Keillor. According to Keillor, this was a town where, “All the women are strong, all the men are good looking, and all the children are above average.”
While tongue-in-cheek, this statement was more insightful even than Keillor may have realized, as numerous studies had since documented that humans had a clear tendency to overestimate themselves on almost every dimension.
Ask a group of people if they were below average, average, or above average on anything—driving skills, productivity, intelligence, parenting, and so on—and seventy to ninety percent were convinced they were above average. So people were obviously good at fooling themselves, especially when it came to their own greatness. Thinking about this never failed to crack her up, but this shouldn’t surprise her because, after all, she possessed a sense of humor that was, well . . . above average.
Alyssa took a deep breath, patted her pockets to feel the reassuring presence of pepper-spray in one and a small stun-gun in the other, and opened her front door.
Theo Grant looked exactly like his picture, which was a promising start. He stood five inches taller than her, had black hair, cut short, and a friendly face that seemed calm, confident, and serene.
Some of the responses she had read on his profile page had had a Zen-like air to them, at least in her opinion. Under “favorite quotes” he had chosen one by T.S. Elliot: “And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started, and know the place for the first time.”
Wow. Either Theo Grant had been in a Zen mood when he had chosen this quote, or he had been stoned out of his mind.
A warm smile came over the face of the man standing before her, one she believed to be genuine, and he extended his hand. “Nice to meet you in person, Alyssa,” he said pleasantly.
“You too . . . Theo,” she said, trying out his name for the first time. His profile said he was thirty three, and she believed this number to be accurate.
“Are you ready?” said Grant.
She nodded, closing the door gently behind her.
They walked the short distance to her driveway, upon which a gleaming silver Mercedes was parked, and Grant opened the passenger door, waited for her to seat herself, and then carefully closed it once again.
Punctuality and gentlemanliness. Neither were the most critical attributes on her list, but the guy was off to a good start. The real question was, would she enjoy his company as much as she thought based on his profile? And if she did, would he return the interest?
“Nice car,” said Alyssa.
“Thanks. But it’s a rental. I just moved here, and haven’t had the chance to buy a car.”
She had known about his recent relocation from his profile. “Do you always rent a Mercedes?”
Grant smiled sheepishly. “I wish you hadn’t asked that. Alas, I’m forced to admit that I usually rent subcompacts from companies like Dirt Cheap Rentals, or Fly By Night Cars.” His smile expanded. “Sure didn’t take you long to penetrate my feeble attempt to create the illusion of wealth.”
Alyssa laughed out loud. “Maybe so, but you do get high marks for honesty.”
“Yeah, that’s my charm. I’m painfully honest.” He turned the key in the ignition and then tilted his head toward her once again. “I only rent luxury cars when I’m going on an Internet date with a bright, accomplished woman who is . . . you know, ” he added with a wry expression, “above average in every way.”
A hint of a smile crossed her face. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one who had zeroed in on the “favorite quote” section of the other’s dating profile. “And how often is that?” she asked.
Grant pulled the car onto a narrow private road that led to and from Alyssa’s secluded home, which was nestled in front of the tree line of a thriving woods. He raised his eyebrows. “How often do I go on Internet dates in general? Or how often do I go on Internet dates with bright, accomplished, fellow Garrison Keillor fans?”
“In general,” she replied.
“Let me think about that for a minute,” he said, removing his right hand from the steering wheel and rapidly extending his fingers in sequence, as if counting in groups of five. “Well, assuming my math is correct . . . this would be my first.”
Alyssa realized she was liking this Theo Grant already. His sense of humor had come through immediately, and the pretend counting on his fingers was a nice touch. “My first, also,” she admitted.
They made their way to the French restaurant Grant had chosen, continuing to make conversation that was surprisingly natural and unforced. Although perhaps this shouldn’t have been surprising. The reason she had agreed to go on a date with this man was because he was outgoing, loved the woods as much as she did, and loved both science and science fiction. He had been a freelance science writer for many years, and was especially fascinated by quantum physics, as was she.
When they arrived at the elegant restaurant, La Petit Gourmet, in downtown Bloomington, Grant pulled out Alyssa’s chair and then slid it toward the table after she was seated. Okay, now she was beginning to become impressed. Who did that anymore?
The waiter took their order while they chatted. They were both well versed in the latest mind-blowing science and technology and the conversation took on a life of its own. Grant loved what he did, but it wasn’t the most lucrative. So he had decided to move to Bloomington, Indiana, because he had graduated from Indiana University years before and had an affinity for the town. And few areas of the country were as affordable as this one, or were as packed with lush and spectacular woods.
Alyssa found him charming, funny, exceedingly knowledgeable about a far range of sciences, as might be expected of someone who wrote on different scientific topics for a living, and self-effacing. And maybe, somehow, just a touch mysterious, although she wasn’t sure why she had this impression.
This date could not be going any better. Since a two-year relationship had ended several years earlier, Alyssa had been on maybe a dozen first-dates, but precious few second dates. But she found herself drawn to this man in a way she hadn’t been with any of the others. Maybe her track record was about to change.
She tried to steer the conversation away from herself, so she could avoid lying for as long as possible, but finally, the inevitable happened. Grant used his spoon to tear a hole through the cheese that covered his French onion soup appetizer and gazed at her calmly. “You have an impressive knowledge of physics and cosmology,” he said appreciatively. “But from your profile, I thought you were more in the medical end of things.”
“I am. I just think these other subjects are fascinating.”
“So what do you study in that university lab of yours?”
Alyssa resisted the urge to frown. She hated lying, but there was no other way. Because the truth was she didn’t have an appointment with Indiana University. She had a lab at the outskirts of campus, and she said she was with IU, but this was not true.
The truth was that she was in a branch of the military called PsyOps. The Black Ops end of PsyOps, which she was prohibited from disclosing to anyone outside of those who already knew, including a spouse.
The truth was she was one of the world’s leading experts on hypnotic drugs and hypnosis. On the human mind, the human subconscious. On human behavior. On how to take suggestion to the next level.
Or summed up, she was an expert on human brainwashing. She studied horrible, mind-altering cousins of LSD, sodium amobarbital, chloral hydrate, and scopolamine, alone and in combinations, looking for the best way to strip people of their will, rewrite their subconscious, and bend them to the will of the hypnotist.
Alyssa sighed deeply. “Turns out I’m a mad scientist. I perform experiments so unspeakable, if I told you about them, not only would I have to kill you, but everyone in this restaurant.”
Grant smiled and shook his head. “Good one,” he said in amusement. “But I don’t believe that for an instant.”
Nice guy, she thought. Too bad he was such a poor judge of character.
2
Alyssa looked into the serene continence of Theo Grant’s face as he took his first spoonful of French onion soup and forced herself to smile. “Okay, the boring truth is that I study human behavior,” she said, a disclosure that had the singular advantage of being at least partially true.
Watching his puppy-dog acceptance of this statement was almost too depressing to bear. It was hopeless. She was relationship kryptonite, forever unable to share the most important part of her life with a romantic interest. How could a relationship based on lies ever succeed?
And the necessity of keeping the majority of her life secret was only the last hurdle to overcome. She was an MD/PhD in neurology from Princeton University, which was intimidating to most men. At least Theo Grant had specified on his profile page that he liked his women bright, well-read, and accomplished.
And she had to be cautious even with the bits of her expertise she could share, the encyclopedic body of research she had mastered on personality, behavior, and the subconscious. Like a man dating a psychiatrist, always wondering if he was being psychoanalyzed, few men could avoid feeling overly self-conscious about their behavior in her presence.
And even if she were authorized to tell Theo Grant what she really did, she couldn’t anyway. Who could blame any man for freaking out upon discovering that she was one of the world’s leading experts in narco-hypnosis. For wondering if she might turn him into a slave. For wondering if they got into a fight, or broke up, god forbid, if he would find himself clucking like a chicken every time he heard the word, asshole, or some other trigger that she had devised.
The fact that this wouldn’t happen—couldn’t happen—wouldn’t matter. As an expert, she was well aware of the crippling limitations of narco-hypnosis. But a non-expert would be difficult to convince, especially given the huge volume of misinformation about the subject that many accepted as fact.
She still couldn’t believe she really worked for Black Ops. This twist of fate was so improbable as to be absurd. She had been curs
ed with a keen interest in science, and the more she read about research into human personality, and especially the power of the subconscious mind, the more entranced she became.
So she had decided to pursue an MD/PhD with intentions of joining a university lab. The thought of joining the clandestine services had never once crossed her mind. Who sets out to join PsyOps? Or Black Ops? Or, horror of all horrors, both at once?
The beginning of the end had occurred when she had written a paper in medical school, proposing a revolutionary theory on the workings of the subconscious. It was denied for publication almost immediately. No one would touch it. So she had published the paper on her personal blog, where it had been savaged by the scientific community. Her ideas flew in the face of conventional dogma. They were absurd. Ridiculous.
Just as she was reeling from this reaction, she was contacted by PsyOps. She was told that her theories were not absurd. In fact, her ideas mirrored, and even extended, their own thinking.
And then, in typical PsyOps fashion, they had helped to fan the flames of the scientific evisceration of her ideas, just to discredit them further, since the clandestine services of other countries could read papers online just like anyone else.
The recruiter touted her as a genius, with incredible intuition, and offered to allow her to run a lab of her own, with several assistants. At a salary many times what she could expect to earn in academia.
It was an elegant piece of PsyOpera. Destroy her chances at a mainstream research career, while offering her the chance to have unlimited resources to pursue her theories. They really knew how to make it impossible to say no. A potent mixture of seduction . . . and destruction.
But she had had one condition. She wouldn’t study narco-hypnosis to control others, just to learn how to prevent it, how to undo it, if it were ever used against America or her allies. The recruiter had agreed immediately, insisting this was the case anyway.
Quantum Lens Page 2